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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312010">with sharp teeth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD'>ArgylePirateWD</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood Drinking, M/M, Sexual Content, Vampires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:41:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Best I can tell, it was an incomplete transformation. Either that or all of the lore is wrong</em>. </p><p>One of Harold's secrets comes out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harold Finch/John Reese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>with sharp teeth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts">talkingtothesky</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He's heard rumors for years, dismissed so many of them as bullshit that even when he sees Harold's teeth—no, <em>fangs</em>—jutting out, he still doesn't believe it. But Harold's pallor, his bone-white skin stark against the black leather couch, his sweat-drenched face and desperate, conflicted eyes say more than explanations ever could.</p><p>It just...doesn't make sense. "I've seen you in the sun," John says, cleaning the sweat from Harold's skin with a wet cloth. His <em>warm</em> skin. Harold is sweating, what the fuck, how is John supposed to believe this when Harold can <em>sweat?</em> He still has a limp. He still has a bad neck. But vampires are indestructible. It doesn't make any <em>sense</em>.</p><p>"You're sweating. I made you that lasagna just the other day. The sauce was full of garlic, and you didn't get sick."</p><p>"No," Harold rasps, voice ragged and weak and quiet. "No, I did not."</p><p>On impulse, John checks for a pulse, and he finds one, a rapid-fire tattoo threatening to burst right through Harold's skin. "You have a heartbeat."</p><p>"Best I can tell," Harold says, "it was an incomplete transformation. Either that or all of the lore is wrong. I don't know." He draws in another trembling breath. God, since when do vampires breathe? "One of your predecessors turned me—and he didn't exactly give me an explanation after. I don't know what all there is to it, but I need to feed periodically. I don't know what will happen if I don't, but..." He waves a hand vaguely, and lets it fall back down on his heaving chest. "The dread, this <em>feeling</em>. It tells me that I do not want to know.</p><p>"And still, I put it off for far too long. We've been so busy." Harold swallows hard, and licks his dry lips. John watches, entranced inexplicably, as his pink tongue dips unharmed beneath the needle-sharp points of his long, white fangs. "I feel like I'm going to die," Harold whispers, and clenches his eyes shut, tight and pained, clutching at his chest. Jesus. For Harold to let him see that he's in pain...it's bad.</p><p>It's not a difficult decision to make—it's not a decision at all. John drops the washcloth, not caring where it lands, and holds his wrist close to Harold's mouth. Harold sniffs, and his eyes blink open. "John?" he asks, barely over a whisper, weak, so weak. John's heart breaks.</p><p>"Will it stop it?" John knows the answer, can read it on Harold's face as soon as Harold averts his eyes.</p><p>"I can't..."</p><p>"Will it stop it?" John repeats, emphasizing every word. "Will it help you? Will it stop the pain?"</p><p>After a moment, Harold gives him a tiny nod, and says, "Yes."</p><p>"Then drink."</p><p>The look Harold gives him is like John stabbed him in the heart. Before he can protest, John presses his wrist to Harold's cracked lips, and says, "Please."</p><p>Harold's eyes slam shut again, but he doesn't make John insist. Twin pinpricks plunge into John's wrist, deep and surprisingly painful, sending a jolt straight into John's core. John stifles a hiss, not wanting Harold to back out without feeding, but he thinks Harold must've noticed anyway because his teeth start to withdraw.</p><p>Then, Harold starts to suck.</p><p>It's visceral, electrifying, immediate, an indescribable sensation flooding every nerve in John's body with <em>need</em> in an instant. His legs give out on him in a rush, not even leaving him time to catch himself on the couch before his knees hit the hardwood. It doesn't matter—his entire universe is on fire, alight with the wet, hot pressure of Harold's mouth on his pulse, draining him of blood and breath and filling him with something else, something bigger and hotter and goddamn <em>magical</em>.</p><p>Jesus, it feels good. He's hard as a rock.</p><p>As he feeds, Harold lets out tiny little sounds, muffled, probably involuntary moans down low in his throat, dizzyingly obscene. John's never heard anything like it. He wants to hear it for the rest of his life, wouldn't mind if this moment is the rest of his life. The universe has narrowed to the blissful suction on his wrist, to the press of softening lips and occasional glancing brushes of sharp teeth, to the heat crackling through his every cell. And the fact that it's <em>Harold</em>, that he's helping Harold, that he's <em>saving</em> Harold with this? What a perfect way to go, he thinks. What a perfect way to go.</p><p>And it's easy to see why Harold didn't want him to do this. It's too <em>dangerous.</em> No sex can compare, no drug can compare. The longer it goes, the more it feels like he's floating, flying, his body buzzing with the thrill of it all. Harold's mouth erases every ache and pain from his muscles and bones, chases away the remnants of too many sleepless nights and cups of coffee. He feels incredible. He feels bulletproof.</p><p>He feels himself come, like an afterthought, without a single touch.</p><p>When Harold pulls away, he feels like he could cry. "That's enough, I think," Harold says, his voice strong and even, back to its familiar, commanding self. He looks radiant. He looks alive. He looks so <em>beautiful</em>.</p><p>John stares at him, dazed, starstruck, until his eyes catch on a droplet of blood lingering at the corner of Harold's lips. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes it away with his thumb, then brings it to his own mouth and sucks his finger clean, tasting the salty, metallic tang on his tongue. Harold's breath hitches, and John flashes him a filthy grin around his thumb, then pulls it from his mouth with a wet and dirty pop. He doesn't know why—it just feels <em>right</em>. It feels necessary.</p><p>Without a word, Harold grabs him by the collar and hauls him into a kiss, sweet and hot and edged with sharp teeth.</p>
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